


ink

by mahariels



Series: tamar shepard [4]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Earthborn (Mass Effect), Gen, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect), Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahariels/pseuds/mahariels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>garrus accompanies tamar to a tattoo parlor on the citadel to fix one of cerberus' mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ink

“Is this necessary, Shepard?” he asks. It doesn’t seem necessary to him. There are time sensitive missions, and then there’s Shepard’s tendency to take detours to pick up every stray in the galaxy. 

And whatever _this_ is.

They’re standing in a tattoo parlor in the lower levels of the Wards. He’s pretty damn familiar with this place from his time in C-Sec and he doesn’t have a high opinion of the owners or of their standards of cleanliness. The neon light outside flashes:  _WA K INS WELC ME._

Shepard raises one eyebrow. “You questioning a commanding officer, Garrus?”

His mandibles twitch. She doesn’t pull rank on him often, and he doesn’t like it when she does. It feels strange. Wrong. And he doesn’t even want to probe too far into the fact that she’s started calling him _Garrus_  instead of _Vakarian._  

“Yes.”

“Well fucking don’t.”

At least that’s one reassuring thing, about her coming back from the dead—her spirits-forsaken stubbornness is pure Shepard. He hangs back a little as she approaches the “artist” on duty, shooting the shit about pricing and what she’s looking for. He doesn’t really listen—whatever she’s doing to her skin’s her own business. Human tattooing’s always seemed a little strange, to him. It doesn’t tell you anything _real_  about them—where they’re from, who their family is. They pick whatever they want, on a whim, in a way that sometimes seems like a lie.

“Hold tight,” Shepard says, when he wanders back over to see what she’s doing. “This shouldn’t take long. Watch my back, yeah?”

“Your boyfriend better not get in the fucking way,” the tattooist mutters. “I’m an _artist_  and I need my space.”

“You’re a criminal,” Garrus reminds him, choosing to ignore _boyfriend_ , because Shepard hasn’t even blinked, so he’s sure not going to, “and you’re lucky I’m not arresting you.”

“For what?” the _artist_  jeers back at him. “She’s payin’ me.”

“I could come up with a short list pretty damned quick.”

“You ain’t C-Sec anymore, buddy. So if she wants you back here, you better shut the fuck up.”

It rankles, but this matters to Shepard, so he shuts up.

And he follows her into the back room, where she sits down on the table while the artist’s preparing the machine, and unceremoniously strips off both the chestplate of her armor and her shirt. Shepard isn’t the sort to be self conscious about nudity, so he doesn’t look away, but he’s struck again by how strange human bodies are. Breasts, for example. He’s seen them on other humans in the course of his work, but he’s never seen _Shepard’s_ breasts. They look like the others, really. Strange and round and fatty, though Shepard’s are smaller than some of those he’s seen. Half of him had expected it to be different, because it was her.

But she’s still human.

(Maybe there’s something to be said about the fact that she doesn’t seem to mind him watching her, but then again, maybe there’s not.)

The thing he’s most distracted by, though, is her complete lack of scars, scars he remembers from their time on the first Normandy. Her skin is new and clean as a human baby’s, unmarred. Another jolting reminder that even though Shepard’s still Shepard, she is and she isn’t. The woman he knew’s in there, somewhere, but the body doesn’t match. 

The design the machine projects, held steady for the needle to follow, is unfamiliar to him. “So this—” he gestures at the room, as the buzz of the machine starts up, “—why?”

“Stop talking,” the _artist_  snaps.

Shepard grins at him over the man’s head, and he settles down and watches the needle touch her chest, right above where a human heart would be located. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t protest any more. It’s her choice. Instead, he watches the man work. Shepard’ll be lucky if she doesn’t get an infection (he knows, he’s seen the lists), but she seems happier than he’s seen her in a while, so he doesn’t say anything. That’s what they have Dr. Chakwas for, after all.

The design is a red ten, with the edges made to look like they’re dripping blood. It’s ugly, even by human standards, and it doesn’t seem at all like her. He’s not sure what _seems like her_  would be, exactly, but somehow this garish stain on her brand new skin doesn’t seem like it. But he doesn’t ask any questions, just keeps a watch on the door and one hand on his rifle, just like she asked him to. Just in case.

Shepard sits well. Doesn’t flinch when the needle jumps over the bones of her rib, where he can see the skin stretched thin. She doesn’t have much fat on her besides the breasts. It can’t be comfortable but she doesn’t flinch. Of course, they’ve both been through worse. A tattoo isn’t much when you’ve been spaced or taken a rocket to the face.

Later on, back on the _Normandy,_ she comes to see him in the battery, out of her armor. He can see the edge of the bandage peeking out from beneath her t-shirt when she looks up at him, serious as ever.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For coming with me. I didn’t want to go alone, and I knew—well, I knew you wouldn’t ask questions.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I know you have your… past.” He’ll always remember, of course, her face on Edolus, the sight of her boot stomping down on a thresher maw’s eye pod. When she wants to tell him, she will, and he’ll tuck that away, too, in the secret mental dossier he has on her, one that’s grown less and less professional as the months go by.

“I know,” she says. Her voice is quiet. If she was a turian, he’d strain for the sub vocals, to catch the meaning of it. But she’s not, and he can’t. “It was—it was something I had done to me, when I was still a kid. It was something I thought I wanted at the time, before I knew what it was gonna cost me.”

“You wanted it back? A reminder?”

She doesn’t smile—it’s not that kind of a moment, but she nods, and her hands grip the railing. “I knew you’d understand. Yes. It’s a reminder to myself. I’m not entirely sure of _what_. Hell, I could write you a fucking novel about it. But I—didn’t feel like myself without it. It felt like cheating, somehow.”

“Shepard, whatever you are, you’re not a cheater. Except,” he adds, “of death. Maybe. But I’d prefer if you didn’t try that one again.”

She laughs. “Shit, Garrus. Me fucking too.”

He can’t be sure, exactly, but she seems—easier, after that. Not happy about being on a Cerberus ship, of course. He gets that. But something’s shifted her back towards _Shepard_ , and he can’t be anything except relieved.


End file.
